Sinners and Saints
by evalia godot
Summary: What they would give to find that which was lost. M. For Matt.
1. Ghost

Tag: Mello finds himself oddly intrigued by a stranger in the street. But is she really as simple as she appears? Is anything as simple as it appears?

_What do you say to your best friend when he's buried six goddamn feet underground?_

Mello kicks a clump of the still-fresh, dampened dirt with the tip of his boot and grimaced at the hollow sound it made. The sound of earth crashing down, covering, _burying_...

"Sorry, Matty-boy," Mello mutters, bending to brush off the top of his friends stone. It is a gesture of comfort more than anything; he knows the rain has washed away any stray dirt. The stone itself had been sent over by Watari when news of Matt's death had been relayed to him. The epitaph simply stated the name 'Mail Jeevas'.

_Plain and simple_, Mello thought.

_Plain and... dead._

_Dead and gone._

_Dead._

Mello exhaled sharply through his nose. He took one last lingering look at his best friends resting place and turned heel, heading back to the beat-up blue truck he had hot-wired back in the town he had just blown through. He dropped into the bucket seat, earning a groan from the old hunk of metal, wiped angrily at his eyes, and fumbled to the wires down by his knees. With the proper wire tapped against another set, the old pick-up rumbled lazily to life.

He hated this. He hated driving five miles an hour over the bumpy, winding, dirt road (_If you could even call it a goddamn road, _Mello sneered). He hated the rows and rows of grave markers, the maze that is an old cemetery.

He hated the flowers.

"What are flowers to dead people anyways?" Mello let out a dry laugh. "What are dead people gonna do with fuckin' flowers... its fuckin' stupid..."

The urge to destroy the brightly colored adornments spread over his pallid skin; his body warmed to the idea of stomping them, every flower, every petal, into the ground.

Into the ground.

Six feet into the ground.

_Dead._

These fucking flowers should be dead. These bright, mocking, frivolous, idiotic, _stupid fucking flowers _should be stomped six feet into the ground, six feet under so Mello could be spared of their glaringly bright mockery, their glaring reminders that people _died. _That good, beautiful people got put into the ground.

Flimsy pieces of his amber hair swayed over his eyes, the bumps in the old road jostling the locks about: just over his shoulders, just into his line of sight, just agitating enough to make Mello consider a haircut. _But who did he have to impress?_ he thought. No one had ever been impressed by him before anyways. "No," he grumbled, "It's always been Near. Its always been that ghost of a fuck that-"

Bitter, bitter, _bitter._ Mello frowns.

What was Near to him? What did that washed-out _child_ mean to him? Nothing. Not shit. Not a flying _fuck. _Like flowers to dead people. He'd never be smart enough, either way. And besides, Mello knew it was his quick temper that kept him out of competition with the prodigal boy, the genius, apathetic superior. Smarts didn't matter anyway.

And maybe that they were so opposite was what angered Mello the most. It meant he was everything everyone _didn't _want. (_Always what everyone doesn't want.) _He groaned inwardly. A dull thud sounds under the tires as the old dirt road becomes a scantily paved one.

The absence of the sun made it difficult to tell the time, the rain made it difficult to see clearly down the road, and his damp pants made it difficult to sit comfortably. But worse was the empty thud of his heart beating in his chest, and echoing in his ears. _That _made it hard to breathe, hard to think of anything but Matt, hard to hold down the anger and the _hate._ Flowers float through his mind. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and grinds his teeth down on each other.

He needs something. Something to keep his mind even the slightest bit busy. _Something._

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Mello leans over to the plain black bag he'd thrown into the far side of the passenger seat. His arm is just barely too short to stretch over the widely set old model, just too short to reach. He lets out a groan of irritation, glances back at the road and reaches a little further, but still, comes up just a little too short.

_Too short._

_Too short._

_Not good enough._

_Not quite good enough._

The ugly, grave-marking flowers are singing in his head: _"Try a little harder, could have done much better."_

A final push for the bag's shoulder strap. The wheel slips.

Mello's eyes flit upward, over the dashboard. The world seems to stop spinning.

"No..."

It takes one, one and a half seconds for Mello's head to catch up to what his eyes see.

Standing placidly in the middle of the road, Mello sees Matt. He is blurry through the rain and stinging tears, but Mello sees his friend laugh, and smile. His eyes brim; a strangled sob pushes up from his throat.

But the mirage dissipates into the rain, and Mello is left looking not at his friend, but the retreating form of... a girl; a girl no taller than himself. He blinks away tears and memories and mirages and pulls over the truck. Mello hurls himself out of the cab. The rain thoroughly re-soaks him in a short moment. He watches the girl walk almost pleasantly along the yellow line in the middle of the road. She seems to have either not noticed or dismissed his presence altogether – just one soaked shoe in front of the other. Mello quickly grows impatient and irritated. What is this girl, with this drenched yellow dress, walking along so happily for? And why, he wants to yell, does she ignore him?!

Her demeanor alone is pissing him off.

He should just climb back into the truck and leave.

"Hey!" he calls out in agitation.

She turns around, her body facing him, her heels together. She clasps her hands together and tilts her head, seemingly unsure as to why this strange boy is yelling at her after nearly mowing her down with his awful old truck.

"Yes?" she calls back to him over the rain. Mello raises an eyebrow at the girl, surprised, taken aback even, that she responded so bluntly, as if he were the dumbass in the middle of the street.

"Yes?" she repeats, impatience hardening the edge of her tone.

He doesn't know what to say. There is no educated way to ask someone why they gallivant along in the middle of the street during an angry rainstorm. "Well, what the hell are you doing?!" he settles on. "I almost hit you, for fucks sake!"

Her laugh is a light, tinkling sound that hits the rain like wind to chimes.

"Don't you think I know that?" She is shaking her head at him, laughing and laughing. "Of course I know you almost hit me! I was there, remember? Why, it was only just a minute ago, you couldn't have forgotten already, could you?"

Her quips are quickly dwindling his nerves. "Of course I fucking remember!" he yells. "What I don't remember is you giving me a reason as to what the hell you're doing out here, dancing in the middle of the goddamn street!" Mello has thrown his arms out in frustration. "In the pouring fuckin' rain, no less!"

The girls eyes become slightly dizzy; she looks around, as if she hadn't thought to do so before.

"Oh," she says simply, "I suppose you are right. It _does _seem to be raining! I'd hardly noticed!" She laughs again, a little more softly this time, and looks down at her appearance. Mello can barely hear her mumbles above the rain. "My," he thinks she says, "I must be sight..."

Mello rolls his eyes. _What a fuckin' freak. A serious nut-job, or something._ He shakes his head at the girl, trying to study her face from afar as she continues muddling on how she hopes the bright yellow of her dress doesn't bleed.

"Hey!" Mello calls out again. She glances up. "Oh, hello?"

"You're not answering a goddamn telephone, for Chrissakes, I'm right here!"

An offended look flinches over her face. He thinks her lower lip is sticking out just ever slightly, but the dark shadows over her face make it hard to tell. "I'm not able to take your call right now," she shouts. "Please leave a message!" She turns on the heels of her sloshing sneakers and begins to trudge away.

_Dammit, _Mello curses himself. _Fuckin' pissy women, I fuckin' can't stand these pissy types. Dammit, dammit, dammit!_

With an audible mix of a groan and a frustrated sigh, Mello takes off after her, his clunky, soaked boots weighing him down. When he catches up to her, he turns her around by her shoulder.

Her face catches him by surprise.

He didn't imagine from a distance that she would look so... _striking._

Her eyes are a deep, fuzzy gray; the kind of gray that they carve Greek gods or goddesses into. Her lips are set in a curved pout that falls open in her moment of surprise. They are a pale, washed color, like they've been in the rain for too long. Her face is equally fair, the seemingly only color spreading from the curve of her cheekbone. Her jaw is made up of clean, sharp lines. And her hair. Her hair appears about shoulder length, but it is hard to tell, as most of it is saturated and sticking to the sides and down the curve of her swan-like neck.

Mello shakes his head slowly, wondering for a moment just what kind of paradox this girl really is.

"I didn't mean that," he tries to reconcile, "I just wanted to ask you if you knew where a town was."

The edges of her eyes harden, and she seems far away for a moment, for another set of frozen gray eyes are flickering in front of her own. But she recovers quickly. "No," she says simply.

"Any town, I just need..." he glances over his shoulder at the blue truck that he left idling on the roadside. "I just need to uh, fill up the gas tank."

The look she presses into him is not one of plain curiosity or accusations, but an odd mix of the two. She's scrutinizing him, and Mello has one clue why. _Okay, _he muses, _So I did almost hit her with a truck. But she's looking at me like I just killed her goddamn cat or something. _From irritation, he tries his hand at giving her the same strange expression, but it falters when she moves and walks around him, to the vehicle.

"Well?" she calls behind her.

Mello finds himself shaking his head again. This time, he is not even entirely sure why, and he follows suit.

The two situate themselves into the car, and before the cabs light goes out, he notes a deep reddish-brown tinting her hair. The color makes his stomach turn. She turns her head and raises an eyebrow to him. Mello shifts gears and pulls back onto the road.

"Just keep straight," she says plainly. "A proper town will come along in a moment."

And the cab of the truck is quiet, save for the rumbles of the road. After a minute or so, Mello begins to drum his fingers against the steering wheel. He quickly grows bored, and impatient with the lack of conversation. "So, you got a name?"

He throws a sideways glance at her in time to see her shrug.

"I did," she murmurs vaguely. Mello curls his lip a little and shakes his head. "Did?" he retorts.

One corner of her mouth lifts in a smile that doesn't come close to sealing the distance in her eyes. _What is with this weirdo?_ Mello asks himself.

"I don't have one either," he says. "They all just called me Mello."

"Something tells me that name does not precede you," she smiles. From what he can see from the corner of his eye, it seems a little more genuine. "They called me Nora." He hears water splashing and assumes she is wringing out the bottom of her dress. "Nora Lenore, really, but just Nora was fine."

Mello nods and tries the words out; Nora Lenore. They have a sort of strange zest in his mouth.

"So how did you almost hit me with this piece of shit anyways?" Nora tilts her head as she speaks. Mello cannot tell if this trait is irritating or endearing. The former?

"I was hungry," he says plainly, earning a scoffing laugh from his passenger. Its like she doesn't believe him, she's just laughing and laughing at him. Like flowers. Like Near. He shakes his head. "Hand me that bag, will you?" Mello jabs a finger toward the black bag that Nora had unthinkingly pushed to the floor when she'd climbed in the truck. She lifts it up, surprised by its lightness, and drops it into his lap. Mello un-ties the front flap and flips it open with one hand. After digging around for a moment, he pulls out a chocolate bar. Nora's laughter picks up again.

A few dim lights seem to be melting over the horizon, through the slowing rain; Mello takes it for the town Nora had mentioned. Mello follows the road until a gas station comes into view. He parks across the street. "I didn't think you really wanted gas," Nora says matter-of-factly, a sly grin tugging at her mouth. Mello laughs soberly and pushes open the door. Already feeling like the Bonnie to his Clyde, she hops out, too.

Covered by the blanket of early, early morning, the two slink to a gray Oldsmobile that is pulled up to the curb. "Lesson one," he jokes. "The older the car, the less likely an alarm is." Mello digs in the pocket of his dark red jacket and produces a pocket knife. He flicks out the small knife and holds it up for her to see. Her eyes seem to glow, and she bends at the waist to watch him wiggle it around in the lock on the handle with her grin growing into a full blown devious smile when she hears the hollow _click_ of a lock popping out of place. She looks happily at Mello. He merely shakes his head and laughs quietly, putting his finger to his lips to be sure that she keeps quiet. Nora imitates his motion, and nods, the crafty smile tugging her mouth upward despite her efforts.

He opens the door carefully, working to keep the noise minimal.

"Lesson two," he slides into the car and reaches underneath the steering wheel. "This thing here is the harness connector. It lets you reach the wires behind the ignition." She watches him easily tug off the plastic cover ("Cheap shit," he mutters with a smile. "This is too easy sometimes.") and toss it over his shoulder into the back seat. "Find the two wires that look the same." Mello puts the end of the pocket knife between his teeth, simultaneously clicking on a small beam of light from the head of the contraption.

He plucks two wires, strips them with his teeth, and twines them together.

"Last lesson, there's the ignition wire. This brown one here, see? You just tap it against these two and..."

The Oldsmobile groans and the engine turns over. Nora laughs excitedly and runs to the passenger side.

"Its a useless trade," Mello laughs. "But its the only one I know. And hell, it comes in handy once in a while, right?"

In a moment, the two are laughing together in the rebellious joy of stealing someones car, and the moments seem to pass a little faster between them. Soon, the sun is coming up, and Mello notes that Nora has drifted to sleep. The rising rays of morning collect in the red of her hair, almost electrifying it, and the color turns his stomach. _Its too red, _he thinks. _Too familiar. _Mello thinks he likes Nora better in the dark, where her hair looks brown instead of that haunting shade of red.

He pulls into the first hotel parking lot he sees. Sleeping in an Oldsmobile isn't his idea of pleasant, and it surely can't be Nora's either, so he reaches down to the harness connector and plucks the two wires apart. The car shudders off.

Mello heaves a quiet sigh and slouches against the seat. The still of morning seems to move inside of him. Its like his body can feel the clouds swirling about the sky in the aftermath of their nights storm, like he can see ghosts swirling in the clouds, like he can feel every emotion he'd never known in the glow of the rising sun. Nora sighs in her sleep, and Mello remembers the strange company he is keeping. He pushes open the door and walks around to open the passenger side. Nora's hand tumbles out of the open door. Mello bends at his waist, tossing her arm over his shoulder, and moves to scoop his other hand under her knees, but she stirs. She moves quickly. _Too _quickly. He jerks his hand back at a sharp pain on his knuckles. Mello looks down.

In the mere moment at her wake, Nora had thrown back the hem of her dress and pulled a switchblade from a holster that was strapped to her upper thigh; a device that Mello would have never thought to look for. She'd clicked the blade free and sliced his knuckles in a single, clean swipe.

"Touch me again, and I'll slice your fucking throat," she growls at a dizzying speed.

Mello is frozen. His mouth has fallen open, and he is gaping at the line of blood on his hand. Not that it hurts too terribly, but the shock... the shock drips from the wound with his crimson lifeblood.

He shakes his head slowly and untangles his other arm from her body. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't think it would... be a problem."

"Touching someone in their sleep, not a problem?" Nora slips the blade back into place at her thigh and stands up. "Such skewed logic, you have, Mello bean..."

She walks ahead of him, into the hotel.

Mello wipes the back of his hand on his pants and grimaces. Should he just learn to expect anything and everything from this girl? Should he get back into the car and leave her here? Should he follow her? The bigger part of him is tugging him back to the Oldsmobile, but a smaller, nagging part is saying "Dive into that rabbit hole, maybe she'll hurt you again."

Dive into it.

Get hurt.

_Feel._

And so he turns heel and heads inside, unsure why he feels sort of electrified by the blood still trickling down his fingers.

The man behind the desk at the entrance holds his hand out expectantly when Mello stalks by. "The lady, she say you pay," he said in a thick accent. Mello rolls his eyes and digs into his pocket. He flicks a few bills at the man and walks down the only hall. "Second to last on left," the man calls from behind. Mello grimaces. But he easily finds the room, and finds Nora dozed on the single bed.

"Your a serious freak, Nora Lenore," he mutters. But there's a light tilt to the way the words roll. There's a subtle interest in the way he looks her up and down before sitting down next to her; a look that asks what other tricks she has up her pretty yellow dress. "What a clever bitch," he's gotta laugh. He'd never have guessed that the small girl was packing blades under her skirts. "Clever," he mutters again.

Mello crosses his arms behind his head and leans back, closing his eyes._ Odd as fuck, _he thinks, _but damn... damn, is she interesting. Like nothing I've ever seen. _A burst of air pushes from his lips in a dry sort of laugh. He shakes his head again (she seems to have that affect on him), but he can't shake away her eyes, the bright gray that hardened when he'd touched her. He breathes in and begins the drifting dance around the edges of sleep.

From beside him, Mello hears Nora let out a soft chuckle.

"Oh, I'm just as fucked up as I'm _sure _you are, Mello, 'ol boy," she says vaguely.

His eyes dart open and to his left. Nora has turned onto her side, facing away, and her smooth breathing has resumed. Mello doesn't sleep.


	2. Cerise

_**It's going to happen again. She can tell by the heaviness of his voice in her ear, and the weight of his body. "You just have to be mommy for me again, okay, Norie?"**_

"_**You just have to be mommy for me, you look just like mommy, Norie..."**_

_**She bites at her lips, holding back sobs and screams when he presses his bulky body into hers, when he takes her innocence, piece by piece, night by night, one agonizing push after another.**_

"_**You know I can't stop, Norie, baby... you've just gotta be mommy for me, you know we all miss mommy, Norie..." Her teeth tear at her raw lower lip. And piece by piece, night by night...**_

_**The switchblade was tucked between her mattresses. She could feel the handle press into her when her body was flattened against the bed, flattened like flowers pressed in books. Her hands trembled.**_

"**I can't stop now, Daddy, baby," **_**she'd said dizzily. The click of the freed blade stopped her father cold.**_

_**The sound of breath being pushed out of lungs is a curious thing, Nora thinks, when she lodges the blade deep into her father's gullet. And though she can't see much in the darkness, she can feel his blood soak her stomach; she feels his body convulse. **_

_**The sound of a shank digging into flesh is a curious sound, she thinks, as she releases a shaky laugh.**_

_**Nora shoves the substantial body off of her with a great heave and trades her ruined nightgown for a simple yellow dress.**_

**Mello isn't on the bed beside her when Nora blinks open her eyes, but she hears water running in what she assumes is the bathroom. The typically placed mirror on the closet door, a standard issue to any second-rate motel, shows her the tangled mess of her dark hair, and her freshly-wrinkled dress. Nora frowns at her reflection, tilting her head to run her fingers through her hair. She hears the water stop its pouring parade, and she muses momentarily over how funny it is that water can wage such a carnal assault, in all its heated, unbridled fury, over any human body that steps into its misty midst's. But a young girl? Nora scoffs with a quiet giggle, and smiles at the very idea.**

"**Young ladies don't do such things." **

**Didn't Mommy Dearest always say that? **

**Didn't Daddy Dearest ruin that for them all?**

**She slides off of the bed, and is met by a cloud of steam and a startled shout when she pushes open the bathroom door. "What the hell, Nora! Get out!" Nora covers her mouth with a fabricated embarrassment, and quickly says, "Oh, Mello! How awful of me, I'm sorry, I had no idea you were in here!" She reaches backwards with her other hand for the door that she'd somehow closed (**_**How curious, **_**she thinks, hiding the smirk) and apologizes profusely, profusely, pratingly, painfully pratingly, **_**profanely,**_** filling her eyes with the sight of him clutching the towel to his waist the way she's thinking of him filling herself, and oh, to turn his skin to that delightful shade of blushing cerise the way calescent water does...**

**Mello is pushing her through the threshold of the toiletry, and Nora is shaking her head quickly from side to side, prattling on with needless apologies until the door has shut to her face. She lets out a short snicker, reveling in the sight of him, and the very idea**_** (Norie, the **_**idea!**_** Young ladies don't do such things!). **_**"Just let me know when you've, er, finished, ay, Mello?" she calls through the door. There is no response.**

**Mello is toweling his hair on the other side of the door. **_**What a bullshitter,**_** he tells himself. **_**She's a fucked up, psychotic, **_**bullshitter. **_**And she'll either kill me or.... or... well, **_**fuck.**

**And which is more inviting, he asks himself? The latter? Mello pushes the idea from his head. **_**Fuck.**_

**Actually, the more he rolls the word around, the more it does sound like an invite. **_**And hell, she is interesting…**_** Mello tugs the plain black jeans up to his hips and buttons them up. Through the fog on the mirror, he can make out his scarred body and his damp mop of yellow hair. With a grimace, he tugs his jacket over his otherwise bare shoulders. **

**He clenches his fist; a sharp pain shoots from his knuckles. The wound has reopened. Mello cracks a smile and pushes open the bathroom door. **

**Nora is sitting on the floor with her face turned up to the ceiling. Her humming permeates the air. **_**Should I even ask?**_** Mello flops onto the bed and clenches his fists again. Nora's head pops up at the foot of the bed. She's tilting her face in that strange way; the way a cat might. Mello flits his eyes around, growing uncomfortable under her diluted gaze. **

"**What?" he spits. **

**Nora smiles that crescent moon smile. "You're cranky," she says matter-of-factly.**

**Mello snorts. "I didn't sleep very well." **

**Nora springs up and sits on the edge of the bed with her knees tucked under her small frame. She cocks her head the in the other direction. "Why?" She grins again.**

_**Not everyone can sleep peacefully with a psychopath in their bed. **_**He clenches and unclenches his fist. **

"**You're bleeding," Nora states blandly. There is a devious edge to her smile now. It turns Mello's stomach and pulls upward at the corners of his mouth. He nods with a curt downward jerk of his chin. "I wonder why." **

**Nora's steely eyes are wide with an innocence that Mello sees straight through. He lowers his brows and shakes his head at her when she leans toward him with her hands on her knees. Her voice drops to a sly sort of mutter. "You should consider wrapping that up," she nods her head toward his clenched hand. "Wouldn't want to bleed out on the upholstery, would you?" **

**The two stare at each other for a long moment. Flashes of bright color are streaming over Nora's vision. A dizzy spell sends her stare seemingly far away for a moment. But then, in one lithe moment, she tears at the hem of her dress and springs toward him, landing lightly straddled over him. Mello doesn't flinch at the sudden movements. Instead, he grinds his teeth down at the startle that is this strange, caricature of a young woman that has come face to face with him. He pushes a sharp breath through his nose. Half of his mouth curls into a sickly grin that he is perplexed and nearly enthralled to see Nora return. **

**At such a close proximity, there is something feral in the way she cracks a smile.**

**She takes his hand. "Let me help you," she murmurs under her breath.**

_**Fuck**_** repeats itself again through Mello's head. (Initiation or exclamation, invitation or exclamation?) **

**There is just something so raw in the way she leans toward him and speaks slowly, in her heavy drawls. Something so **_**predator**_** in the way her pale legs have taken his body in their stride. Something so… **_**fuck.**_** She's wrapped the pale yellow fabric around his knuckles, a grin tugging her mouth the whole time, and there they sit for a moment.**

_**Something's not right, **_**Mello thinks. **_**For all the time she's been sitting in my lap like this, there have been nothing but disgusting **_**things **_**running in my fucking head. **_**Some dark, sinister heat is blooming over his skin. Nora lowers her head, bringing his hand to her mouth. Her eyes slide upward, looking out at Mello with an animalistic glint in the gunmetal. Asking for neither permission nor forgiveness, she presses her lips to his knuckles. He feels her smile twist against the fabric. Something between a cringe and a shiver slip up his spine. Mello finds himself wondering once more what else she has up that dress of hers. **

**The word **_**fuck**_** escapes his lips on a heavy exhale. Nora's grin widens. Her expression is asking him, "Invitation or exclamation?" There truly is something disgustingly sinful in the way her hips have lowered against his; no longer hovering, but not quite pressing. **_**Just fucking with me. Just… **_**fuck. She kisses his knuckles again. Then his hand. **

**Then up his arm. **

**And then his shoulder. **

**The base of his neck. **

**The hollow under his ear. **

**The line of his jaw. **

**His mouth. **

**Mello does not refuse her. The action is tentative at first; a mere testing of the waters. It is a gentle pressure that feels like the first attempt at asking permission, but as Mello returns the gesture, it becomes something far less uncertain. Between them now is no use for asking. There is only taking until each has been satiated, and between the two of them, that feels just right. **

**Nora guides his hand to her knee. **_**Touch me, Mello,**_** he hears her voice in his head. **_**Fuck.**_** He smoothes his hand over her knee, and just under the hem of her skirt. He runs his hand up her thigh. She opens her mouth to him carefully, moving her hand down his bare stomach. This time, when she lowers herself against him, it is a little less marginally, and she presses into him. **_**Ah, the **_**friction.. Mello drops his head back and pushes out a heavy, shaking breath. With his unoccupied hand, he grabs the base of her neck and forces her mouth open with his. The kisses between them are a sick combination of lust and cringing shivers, but with every clench of his fist, and with every piece of her that he takes for his own, Mello is dragged further and further down. She knots her hands in his still-damp hair, her back arching slightly, her hips bearing into his. Mello flattens his hand around the soft piece of her upper thigh that flows into her hips and pulls her down against him. **

**Down, down, **_**down.**_

**Nora lets out a soft groan and bends her head down to Mello's neck, dragging her teeth over the flushed skin, leaving a few marks in the process. He undulates beneath her. The sudden need to overtake her blooms in his gut. The sudden urge to **_**be **_**the predator…**

**In a single fell swoop, Mello pulls her hips toward him and pushes himself overtop of her. Nora's eyes widen at the sudden change of pace, but a disturbed little smile soon clears the momentary confusion. **

"**You're a twisted fuck of a girl, Nora Lenore," Mello mutters darkly through his clenched teeth. Nora's giggle is the coy sound of broken chimes. Her eyes are shining and flitting over his face excitedly the way they had the morning they'd stolen the Oldsmobile. She reaches up and slides his jacket down over his arms, lingering her hands over him as she does so, reveling in the sight of his rouged skin and his ragged breathes. **

"**You wouldn't have me any other way, would you?"**

**Mello sneers. Nora grins.**

**He presses himself into her. Her head falls back with a whimper. Mello leans into her and lowers his head to the base of her neck. His hands knot themselves in her hair with no regard to the force he uses. "What's it like, Nora?" he breathes fiercely into her ear. Something in her face has suddenly changed. She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. (**_**Be mommy for me, Norie baby...)**_** The animal in her has shirked away. Mello lends her a sneering smirk, tastelessly enjoying the fear in her clouded eyes. Mello moves against her again, harder, more pressingly. "How's it feel to be the submissive one, huh?" Push, push, **_**push. **_**Mello is losing his mind against her. Nora lets out a strangled cry. She pounds her fists against his chest. "Stop it!" she shrieks.**

"**What are you afraid of?" he yells back.**

**She's kicking out at him now. Pounding and kicking, and Mello just stares down at her with that contemptuous look of distracted sarcasm. In one swift motion, he pins her wrists to the bed by her head. Nora's breathing catches on hitches and choked sounds. Mello leans into her. His lips move over her skin when he speaks.**

"**If you can handle dishing it out, you better learn how to take it, too," he says sharply.**

**Mello presses his lips too fiercely to Nora's neck in a short, harsh kiss before pulling himself off of her. She hears him mutter something unintelligible over his shoulder before the door clicks open and slams shut. ("**_**You know I can't stop, Norie, baby... you've just gotta be mommy for me, you know we all miss mommy, Norie..." ) **_**Nora turns onto her side and tucks her knees up into her chest. Something between a sob and a short laugh bursts through her choked throat. ("**_**You just have to be mommy for me, you look just like mommy, Norie...") **_**With a strangled sort of cry, like an animal tangled in wires, she knots her fingers in her hair. Her body starts rocking back and forth, wracking itself up in convulsed sobs. Nora cries openly, bunching her hair, the blankets, her dress in her shaking hands. That same disgusted feeling that plagued her for all of those nights after her father had finished with her crawled back up into the very pit of her stomach.**

**She reached for the switchblade at her thigh, and wrecked with abuse and wracked with sobs, she freed the blade and stabbed it into the bed at face level. (**_**Such a curious sound!) **_**A fresh sob pushed through her raw lips. She lifted the blade and brought it down again. More strangled cries. **

**Again. **

**A heavy feeling fills her, like she's nothing but a heap of tired skin and bones. **

**Deflated. Hysteric.**

**Again.**

**If there was ever any innocence or purity in the dirty sheets and mattress she was lodging her blade into, she was taking it now, piece by piece, push by push, stab by mother**_**fucking**_** stab. Again.**

**She squeezes her eyes shut at the flashes of red. Her grip on the handle slackens. Nora's hand falls limply onto the tangle of the tattered sheets and chunks of mattress. Her hair sticks to the silent tears that roll down her face. The room falls quiet, save for her ragged breathes. A few down feathers float into her line of sight. **

**She close her eyes and begins to hum. Its an aimless tune; unlike anything she's ever heard before. But its hers, Nora likes to think. So from her scratched pipes comes the guttural composition; stressed and pitchy at first as it fights up her dried, choked throat. The melody drags itself out in its gnarled, drifting manner until Nora is able to refocus her thoughts. The shade of red that was blinding her eyes transfers itself to a subtler shade on Mello's skin. A bent smile contorts itself over her mouth.**


	3. Birdsong

And that was how Mello found her, a day or so later. Face down in a pool of damp feathers with her hand limply holding on to the handle of her switchblade like it was the only thing in the world that she ever needed to feel again.

Unmoving.

At first glance, she hardly looked like a girl at all; at least, not the flushed, crooked one he last remembered seeing there. Now she was just lying there in a heap, barely seeming to breathe.

So he tugs down the hood of his black coat with a resigned frown and calls her name from his stance in the doorway.

But she doesn't stir. His voice barely makes a whistle through her empty head.

So he takes a step toward her, heaving a breath out from between his parted lips. Nora's fingers flinch, as if they itch and she can't move properly to scratch them. She whimpers quietly. Her leg is a pale flash of movement as it gives a short twitch. The lines around Mello's mouth deepen when he frowns further. He tilts his head, but can't see through nor around Nora's tangles of hair.

So he bends at the waist and reaches out to her only to find himself jerking backwards when her grip suddenly tightens around the handle of her blade. A louder whimper strangles out. Her angular face takes on an avian sort of glare when her brows knit together in a sharp intake of air. A forced exhale sends a few feathers into the air about her mouth. And if ever there was a caged, dying bird, Mello is looking straight at her.

It's like she's having a nightmare, with her eyes partially opened.

So he calls her name again, a little softer, a little closer, and rests his hand on her shoulder to shake her awake. When they blink open fully, her eyes are the same clouded shade of gray that he remembered: a touch too dull for being entirely awake, and a tad too stormy for safety. Her lips open slightly; she takes in a shaking breath. There's something terrified around the rims of the clouds in her eyes, a heat lightening, or a jarring thunder that sends little birdie wings fluttering for safety, except there is no shelter, and no sense of security in the barren branches of dead trees.

_But hell, any place could be home if you stayed long enough._

She is the storm and the bird that is terrified by it all at once, and she's staring at Mello like she's never seen him before in her life, or rather, like she's never seen _anything _before in her life.

"Nora."

The way he says her name makes it sound more like a fact than anything else, and at the sound of her name, a flush of color rushes to her cheeks. Light is flooding her dark eyes. It's as if she's waking up from a long, long sleep.

En utero? Mello doesn't know.

"Hi there," she murmurs groggily through her auburn complication of hair. A sense of déjà vu shakes Mello's head in a flurry of color without sound; like a filmstrip gone awry. Like that first night in the pouring rain. Like those shadows, and that ghost, like dead flowers (pressed in books) and accidents, near accidents, and certain shades of red tied loosely through those shades of gray that fall between the two. She's almost a haunting. And why would a ghost have any sort of memory?

"Hi," Mello echoes.

Is she cracked? Does she realize who he is, or who she is, or where they are, or what their short history entailed? _Positively mental…? Fuck. _Perhaps it would be proper to jog her memory. If she is unsound, he'd only tip her over with games and stories of what she supposedly is. Mello unconsciously feels his fist clench. The opening in his knuckles is healing, so it doesn't break open again, but the fresh tension, the subtle pulling at the renewing skin is enough to awaken his nerves and remind him of what she could be capable of. This birdie had flown the coop, and Mello would be damned if he didn't at least recognize that.

"Have you been here long?" he commences. Nora casts a wavering glance at him. Her eyes don't really seem to see his again. She nods her head slowly, unsure if she's giving accurate information or not. "Couldn't have been that long, haven't been gone too long," she mumbles. Her words blur together. She's been lost inside herself while he was away, and now, she's like a bear coming out of hibernation. He can just tell.

_Yep, _Mello sneers._ This is exactly it. This is where I found her. What is it, Nora baby, one of your turns? _

Mello can't help himself. He doesn't know what it is about these deranged types that just leave him so… _curious._ This vicious sort of circle, at least, so he's hoping there'll be a pattern to the way she runs, tugs up the wonder of what she's hiding.

Because there's always _something._ Everyone hides _something._

There's _something_ behind that simple, dizzy smile that is begging him, begging on its hands and knees "Oh, Mello, _please_, crack me open and rearrange me 'til I'm sane, crack me open, Mello, _fuck._" And maybe he's a savior for the damned, or maybe he's trying to make up for something he couldn't save before, but either way, there is certainly _something _in the way she tilts her head and lilts her smile that makes Mello want to smash flowers six feet into the ground. But there's something amiss in her gunmetal eyes that sometimes seems more aimed, locked, loaded and ready to blast than any firearm he's ever cocked back.

"Well, how ya feelin', kid?" Mello grins. _It's amusing,_ he thinks, _to see her like this. _Last they met, she was predatory, almost violent. But now, oh, just look at her. She's pathetic; a heap of tired limbs and feathers. It's almost hard to take her seriously. And now, she was beginning to hum. Mello drops his head and begins to shake with the laughter he is suppressing.

"I need a shower," Nora muses aloud. She sits up, a little more certain of herself than before, as if her brain has just woken up, and slips her porcelain legs over the side of the bed with a great yawn and a stretch of her torso. With a clean, nonchalant yank, she frees her blade from its lodgings in the mattress. She smacks her lips in a childish way and sets to her feet, strolling casually to the bathroom, dancing away from him. The frown returns to Mello's face as he hears the bathroom door click shut. The water begins to run. He unties his boots and slips them off. Mello moves to sit down on the bed, sliding out of his coat before leaning back against the headboard.

He plucks a few feathers about with a free hand. Grabs a handful of them and flicks them up into the air. Smiles when they catch onto one another and hit the mattress, never to be safe at home inside it again.

Matt's grave had been cleaned off when Mello had visited it. It was almost as if his friends phantom was checking in on himself, making sure he was taken care of or something. There weren't any flowers, which Mello was pleased with. It seemed everyone understood that Matt would have wanted his resting place kept simple: just clean, with no gaudy plants to clutter his name. Just him.

There's that humming coming from the bathroom; a dizzy tune of no rhyme or reason that floats above the rush of the water, and there's that forced breath coming from between Mello's lips; an aggravated sound that would say "Who does she think she is?" if it could talk. He takes a few feathers up between his fingers and sends them away again.

He folds his hands behind his head. Sleeping in the car for those few nights was bad for his neck, he realizes, as the posture puts a strain on it. Her disheveled melodies are filling up the space in a nearly tangible way. Mello lolls his head around and stretches the muscles. The humming grows distracting. He clicks on the television.

_Noise. Any sort of noise. I need noise. It's too quiet, she's all I hear, I need _noise.

Mello grits his teeth. The weather channel just isn't loud enough, but it's the only proper station that the poor excuse of a motel receives. He settles for static. White noise is better than Nora's noise, he concludes. Any noise is better than her in his head.

But God _dammit, _it seems the louder he turns up the tele, the louder she gets! It's gotta be in his head, she's just gotta be in his head, the damn girl just isn't happy unless she's in his head -

Mello throws himself to his feet and brings his feet down one before the other in pounding footsteps. The closer he gets to the bathroom door, the louder she gets, and Mello's long legs easily cover the distance, and Nora's dizzy voice easily infiltrates his brain. He bunches his fists and pounds on the door, once, twice, three times.

"Give it a rest!" he shouts through the entrance and the steam of the hot water that seeps through the thick crack at the bottom of the door and dissipates into the cooler air. Once, twice, three more times, and a "Dammit, Nora, shut the hell up, would you!?" for good measure, but the estranged melodies from the other side of the door only seems to get louder.

Though, he's sure that's in his head. Now he's sure she's in his head.

Add an aggravated groan to the forceful shove with his shoulder, and Mello is like a blast of fire that touches gasoline when he forces his way into the bathroom.

Add a flurry of falling hair to a spinning, dizzy song, and Nora is the water that puts Mello out in an instant. He comes to a standstill when the door swings open freely, the hinges now almost broken, because nothing in his life could have prepared him for what his eyes meet.

In her one avian hand, she's loosely holding her switchblade. In the other, she's grabbing handfuls of her dark hair. Nora is completely undressed in front of the dingy mirror, sawing off bits and pieces of her hair, humming herself into a lightheaded trance, or a lapse of judgment, or something of that sort. Mello feels the blood running through his veins turn to something like cold battery acid.

The looking glass is so aged and filthy that it gives her reflection an antiqued, cracked coloring.

Her yellow dress is pooled at her feet, like she just shrugged out of it and left it there on the floor. And her dark hair forms little tangled clumps on the floor, in the sink, seemingly everywhere. Dozens of short strands stick to her pallid skin, in the nooks of her collarbones and the valleys of her shoulder blades, just everywhere. Her strained melodies hang in the air with the steam of the hot, running water from the shower.

_Birdie baby's flown the coop._

A light cough pushes through her mouth and sends bits of hair flying from about her lips. Feathers float through Mello's mind. He clears his throat. She doesn't notice.

Feeling more and more like an audience member to some awful macramé film, Mello begins to weigh his options.

Touching her again, even just to gently grab her hand away, could result in the loss of more than just a thin layer of skin. She could stab him through the heart, for all he knows. But wait for her to come out of this on her own, and she'll be fighting with identity crisis' for the rest of her life. She might even blame him for it. No way she would believe she'd hack off her own hair like this. So what else can he do?

"Nora," he calls.

There's the indescribable _swish_ of another handful of her thin follicles being sliced through, and then her birdie head turns slowly sideways so her dizzy eyes can land on his. Though, Mello is almost certain, she doesn't see a thing, and if she does, it's probably black and white. The clouds have rolled in again.

Her hand lifts itself heavily upward, her eyes stay to his, and her blade touches the face of the mirror. All of these actions are very weighted, as if gravity is telling Nora "No, this is unacceptable, I'll do what I can to hold you back, but -" the tip of her knife digs into the surface of the glass. The mirror seems to scream as she drags the edge down over it. Her eyes seem to scream as they drag over Mello's.

A wince catches Mello's face off guard. Nora's head tilts to the side.

And then her hands slacken and her knees seem to go limp. Her knife lands with a clatter into the rusted sink, among a pile of split hair, and she falls forward with gravity now telling her that standing is no longer an option, and that this time, he means it.

No more Mister Nice-Newton's-Law.

Eyes rolled back and mouth hanging ajar, she falls like a bird shot straight out of the sky - all dead weight and no memory of anything.

Of course, Mello realizes a moment too late that he's an idiot for not stretching out his arms to catch her. But alright enough, Nora's upper body lands over the threshold of the bathroom with a heavy thud, her head met with the faded and worn carpet.

Unarmed, she suddenly does seem like such a threat. Mello's first sensible order of business should be to pick up the girl and set her between the sheets where she can wake up with a shred of dignity (if she even remembers what that is), but, with self-preservation engrained into his brain, he steps lightly over her and plucks the switchblade out of the sink. Plucks a few of the hairs off and flicks them up into the air. (Smiles when they catch onto one another and hit the mattress, never to be safe at home again.) Clicks the blade back into its place and tucks the object into the pocket of his pants. He looks down at the heap of a girl that is Nora and frowns with little emotion, and little thought process for a moment, until a wave of pity washes over him. And then he bends his waist and his knees and wedges his arms under her bare waist and her crooked, knobby knees so he can hoist her out of her self-induced ashes.

He groans a complaint from under her dead weight and moves a step or two over to the running water. With his toe, he moves the shower curtain away and brings his heel down on the water faucet, turning and silencing it. And then it's a short journey to the bedside, where he dumps the girl with a groan. Nora's head lolls to the side; a breathe sends her paled-out lips apart.

And then, Mello has a thought that almost has him grimacing at himself for shame.

He pulls the sheet out from under her languid, barren body and drapes it over top of her, never minding the way her breath had caught when she was trapped between his body and the mattress, pressed like a once-beautiful flower in a book. The sheet clings to her, and there are too many curves for his liking. Mello shakes his head. He pulls at the thicker cover.

And once Nora is a shapeless hill of blankets and body, Mello is able to pull on his boots and tug on his jacket and take a dissatisfied chunk of chocolate between his teeth.

She'll wake up alone, Mello knows.

She'll wake up alone, and disoriented, and ass-naked under a mountain of covers, but it's better than having her wake up the way Mello wants her to: pallid thighs spread to him with what's left of her dark hair splayed out on the shitty hotel bedspread, sticking to her forehead with sweat and swearing. He'd wake her up every morning if he could, just to let her sleep like an angel and wake up like a monster. And he'd do it with a goddamned smile on his motherfucking face.

But it's too bad Mello never gets what he wants.

The sun sets with the slam of a door and the hotwired rumble of an Oldsmobile.

They are both gone again.


	4. Awakenings

_[Awakenings.]_

It is either no sense of time or just an altogether senselessness that keeps Nora in bed for heaven knows how long. All she knows is that the sun is rising just so it can set again, and she'll gladly sell it out for a few dreamless hours. She'll gladly sell it out for a little blank forgetfulness. Though, she's not entirely sure it has been only a few hours. All she knows is that the shadows move against the walls, and that they are different every time she crawls out of the hole that is her head for a moment enough to glance around.

All she knows is that when she cracks open her eyes, there's either light coming through the tattered curtains, or there's not. All she knows is that her skin feels like it's on fire.

After a little while, Nora's brain begins to wake itself up. She heaps blankets off of herself to find her body completely undressed. She runs her fingers through her hair to find that its been hacked off, and doesn't sit further than her ears or the nape of her neck. She feels at her thigh to find herself unarmed.

A reflection. Or maybe it's a scratch, or maybe it's a vision.

Maybe it's the way images are flipped and reversed between mirrors in the throats of microscopes. The television is on, screaming static at her that she didn't notice before. Maybe it's the way feathers and chunks of hair fall in the same fluttering sort of way.

Nora slips off of the bed and strolls on wobbling legs to the bathroom.

Her reflection. Or maybe it's the _woosh_ of air that whistles through your head when you're about to hit the ground.

She tilts her head and studies herself, wondering if she's changed in sleep - the way bears wake up leaner and hairier after hibernating, maybe. If it was summer when she left, is it winter now? Or has the Earth made a full trip around the sun, and she's just back where she started? The corners of her mouth pull down. Mello's hair reminds her of the sun. She's thinking she likes him better in the dark.

Starting at the top of herself, inverted in the glass, she tilts her head and studies her mirrored image. A slight bald spot here, a scratch or three there. She's thinned out again, and stands before herself a caricature with poking collars and hips and dulled eyes. Nora stretches her arms above her head. Her ribs are sharp roman numerals on a fading ancient painting. They blot and black out with spots that blip into her eyesight like missiles on a radar. Static wails through the thin walls. Arms still stretching and head clouding fuzzy, she quarter turns. Her shoulder blades are garden spades. She's all sharp angles again.

Nora shuffles her feet into the pale fabric pooled at her ankles. She bends and lifts the garment up, slipping the straps over her pointed shoulders.

She really does look just like her mother.

She's got her eyes: the same round steel that looks out at the world in waves and flashes.

The only real memory Nora's got of her mother is of a burning summer day, some far-off time ago. Those dizzy eyes were turned up to the sky and screaming at the storm clouds. It was hard to tell what was rain. Nora wasn't even sure if she was really crying out there, her arms spread out, her yellow dress sticking to her pale skin. Mouth contorted and voice breaking with the thunder. It was hard to tell what was rain in that summer storm.

Part of Nora thinks she imagined it. Part of her thinks she imagined touching her little fingers to the glass of her window and scrunching her little eyebrows together. Part of Nora thinks she never even had a mother. Part of her thinks it was all just a little girls dream, and that she woke up having never known a mother in the first place.

She was so young then.

It was hard to tell.

It must have been that she'd only just woken up that last night, with Daddy Dearest and blood all over her white nightgown.

Nora thinks she remembers her mother trudging in, soaked through like a limp rag. Her dark hair was matted down her shoulders, to her neck, her face. All drained skin and hollow bones slumped in a chair. But, she was so young then. It's all so hard to tell.

Nora smoothes her hands over the front of her dress and runs her hands over what's left of her hair. She decides she doesn't look anything like her mother at all and turns heel to shut off that terrible static racket.

There's a hammering at the door, and who knows how long it's been carrying on like that.

She feels lighter today. The door is only a skip away, and she reaches it on feet that barely touch the ground. The doorknob seems to turn without her doing so. The hunched-up man on the other side is looking displeased - this, however, seems completely her doing. She tilts her head and grins, her eyes wide and steely and bright, and chirps _Hello_ through the crack between the door and the frame.

The man thrusts a hand through the space, palm wide and open. "Three days, three days and your money's run out - you must pay for lodge, or you leave," he babbles in his thick, strange accent.

For a split moment, Nora's eyes flash crimson, and she's got an old movie playing in her head that shows a giggle and a flash of metal through that outstretched palm. But she smiles graciously at the man. She chimes _Just a second_ and scurries over to Mello's black bag, slumped as her memory mother in a chair off in the corner. She burrows through it for a moment and finds a wad of bills buried at the bottom. She plucks out the money and drops it into the older man's waiting hand without counting anything out. The door closes, and Nora smiles her crescent moon smile, a light feeling of accomplishment spreading through her.

The man counts the money in the hallway as he walks back to his desk. He's grinning and tucking a few bills into his pocket when a blur of grimacing blond and black shoves past him and breezes through the second to last door on the left.

Mello shoves through the door with all the show of an angry peacock, and Nora can't help but grin up at him from her perch on the bed, lying on her stomach, her elbows propped up and her face upturned in her hands. She watches him throw off his coat and kick off his shoes, and she muses out loud _Why so serious, Mello Bean? _with a happy lilt in her voice that turns his head.

He gives her a sneer and a furrowed brow and drops himself into the chair off in the corner.

It's quiet for a minute or two. Mello takes the moment to look across the room to the dingy closet mirror. The sun's going down around the world. Through the blinds fall golden rays of dying light. They streak themselves against the walls, over Nora's body, over the feet she swings back and forth. The entire scene of her is a little stop-motion, Mello thinks, what with her legs moving through the slatted light. His reflection tells him his hair is sticking to his neck and forehead with beads of sweat and his eyes are heavy and dark, telling him to sleep properly.

His fever only just broke in a cold sweat. Mello feels tired.

"You have something of mine." Nora's voice is all wind through chimes again. She's pleasant and smiling at him. Her eyes are still the color of ghosts, but she's smiling at him. She folds her fingers together under her chin and tilts her head in that manner that Mello is growing to detest. "I'd like it back, if that's all well with you."

_Such diplomacy._

Mello retains the _fuck off _that he is dying to spillto the inside of his throat and rubs the palm of his hand over his forhead, mussing his hair between his fingers and grimacing sleepily. The idea of playing ignorant occurs only for an instant, but he senses that she noticed in the way her shoulders tensed for a split second, and Mello settles on just raising one shoulder in a heavy shrug.

Nora frowns at him. The downward turn of her lips changes the entire expression on her face. Mello opens one eye to her. "I said, I'd like it back."

An agitated grumble: "Dammit, woman, I heard you the first time."

In that moment, the two exchanged a glance that was like a wave of acid hitting an iron whale. In that moment, Mello thinks what a great time he would have using his body to smash hers into a billion pieces. From the corner of his half-opened eyes, he sees himself throwing her to the sheets and smashing her into infinite little pieces, like a hammer on mirrored, stained glass.

He just wants to see what would happen if he ripped her apart. Only wants a glimpse of something more outrageously crumpled and cracked than him. He closes his eyes to her. Breathes out and wipes the back of his hand over his brow.

Nora swings her body around so she is sitting straight up with her legs over the side of the bed. She sets her hands on her knees and leans forward, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. Something like a forest fire glints over the ghosts that look out at him.

"Then if you don't mind." She extends her hand out, palm laid open, and waits.

When Mello makes no move to get up, Nora gets to her feet and strolls cleanly to where he sits. She brings that open palm across his cheek in a slap so quick it seems like it takes the sound a second to catch up to the action.

Mello doesn't cry out. He just turns his head slowly to look at her with untouched eyes and an untouched frown.

His head is throbbing. God, Mello is just so tired.

"Give it to me," Nora demands. And Mello just looks up at her, looking like he doesn't even hear her.

He just wants her to crack. Just once. _Just crack, wide open for me, baby, I'm so tired._

It's Nora who cries out when she hits him again. Her hand connects to the side of his face in an angry, frustrated sound like that of a trapped animal. Her breath comes out in heavy thunders. He wonders on what else would make her breathe that heavily.

_I'd put you back together, baby, or maybe I'd just sleep in your shiny splinters. I'm so tired. I wouldn't mind the cuts, I really wouldn't._

He watches her eyes sharpen, _and she's full circle again,_ which almost makes Mello smile. Nora sees the action cross his lips and growls something feral and brings her hands down on him again, hitting him now just for the pure _rage _that he could even think of smirking at her. She screams _Give it back to me! _and _It's mine! _and slaps him with her left, than her right, then her left again until her entire body is swaying with the effort and the momentum. With a thwarted groan, she hits the floor on her knees.

He laughs a little - it's a stung-out, dead sound that meanders away.

And Mello is unmoved. He's all dead eyes, reddened skin, and cold sweat gazing out the window, into the darkness of the night that has fallen. He looks down at her as if to say "Are you finished?" and raises an eyebrow.

Nora is a defeated child there on the floor, bottom lip pouted out and eyes tinged as red as her hands. From this position, she decides on a new tactic.

"If you were half the man that you pretend to be," she snarls, "You would give me back what's mine and you would break me in half with all that hate you've got bubbling under your skin like you really want to."

Her eyes narrow. "Why don't you do what you want, huh? What's stopping you from tearing this place apart?"

He looks at her again with a hand pressed to his forhead and his eyes half-lidded. "Don't make me an offer, kid," he mutters. "Really. You won't like what you get, 'cause you'll get what you pay for."

"I'll get what I _ask _for."

He's face to face with her in a swift turn of his torso. Grimace to calmly replaced smile. Broken anger to raw skin to broken anger. He's thinking she'd shatter for him. Shatter like the old, dusty mirror on the closet, into a billion glittering pieces. She's thinking she'd like that very much, thank you.

He's thinking of taking her on the ground, on a layer of broken glass.

Right here. Paper walls would tear so easily. He could take her and this whole shitty place down with him in a blinding, whirling _something_ -

Nora cracks a smile.

"What's stopping you?" she repeats.

In an instant, it's like her mind has switched gears, like the fresh reel of film from a completely different movie has been slotted into place. She's grinning her chesire grin again. "Where were you anyway?" A tilt of the head. A lilt of the smile.

A grimace. Mello leans back in his chair, a little defiant, a little irritated, but mostly, just plain tired. He rubs at the back of his neck and dries his dampened hand on his pantleg.

"What's it matter?" he slides. Nora just tilts her head further.

"Just curious," she muses. "You look ill, is all. I thought perhaps you got into something you shouldn't have been into."

"You just make me sick, is all," Mello shakes his head.

She laughs that light, airy laugh. All ghosts and wind chimes. "This isn't through. You know this isn't over." Nora's stood up, regained all of her dainty composure, carries herself on those nymphed legs to the bed and sits herself down. "I've got all night."

Mello slits his eyes at her. The fallen darkness doesn't offer the headache of the sun. He leans his arms on his knees and lolls his head over to his shoulder, resting it there, looking out at her.

"Actually," she smiles, "I've probably got more than just all night. I hope you weren't saving that money for anything."

_Bitch. Filthy, glass bitch._ It takes a second, maybe two, for Mello to clear his expression and unknit his brow. "You get what you pay for," he drawls.

"I could hurt you, Mello," she glimmers. The air goes dense, like someone's poured syrup into the room, like it flooded in with the moonlight. "I could hurt you like you've never been hurt before in your life. I always get what's mine." And yet there's still the hint of joy circling her tone.

Mello grins at her, a challenge. Looks over at her through his limp fringe of hair, through his glacier eyes. "I didn't need that money anyway, kid. Feel free to stay as long as it lasts you. Whatever you're runnin' from will catch up to you eventually."

"You don't know shit."

"No, but I know other more important things."

Sneers on both sides. A folding of arms. A glint of understanding. Or maybe it's something more carnal. Nora softens her eyes and blinks off the red flashes. She leans back on her hands and smiles over to him; a smile of someone who's been found out, but sees no punishment in sight.

"It doesn't change how you think of me." Her chin lowers knowingly and she looks over to him from under her lashes and a short, chopped fringe of hair.

He's thinking back. _A proper town will come along in a moment._

"I'm not stupid. I realized that we'd turned around. You back-tracked yourself. Didn't think I'd go back myself and look into you, did you?" He's closing his eyes for an instant, and from across the room, a short laugh leaves her mouth and reaches his ears. A girlish thing that twists up his spine. "It was your dad's car, by the way, but I guess you knew that."

Nora grins and tells him, _You still don't know shit._

"I know more than you think I do."

"And if you think that's enough, than you'll sleep soundly," she nods.

Mello blinks lazily. He drags his eyes over her body, up to her face. When he meets her eyes, he wonders if she remembers how he found her the other day, all ghosts and metal in the bathroom. The room is quiet for a short while before Nora stands up lithely and declares she needs to shower. Mello watches her walk away, and he asks himself when the door closes, if she meant it that time.

Night gives way to the blackness of nowhere time, and Mello finds himself nodding off, his skin screaming, his head pounding. He pulls himself out of the corner chair and slumps out of his coat, stumbles out of his boots, and pulls the black t-shirt over his head before falling into the cool sheets. The sound of running water lulls him. He's thinking of a chilled rain hitting his skin and how it would sizzle on the impact when his eyes fall heavily together. He's thinking how touching stars would really burn his skin away when he becomes vaguely aware of a door opening and closing, and soft footsteps moving over the frayed carpet. The covers lift up, the bed sinks a little under a light weight, and it's suddenly like he's floating in a cool, clear river, just surrounded by this heavenly, sweet air. He moves his heavy body into the wintry caresses and sighs out something beautiful when his forehead comes to rest against the source.

He thinks of a young guy in mans clothing with shaded eyes and a layer of film between himself and the universe. He closes his eyes and sees red.

It's like Aphrodite came in on cat feet and slinked into his bed on a cool breeze. She breaks his fever and soothes his skin, and when he feels a gentle gust smooth the hair that sticks to his face, Mello groans out, _I'm just so tired, _and _I just need_ -

He looks up. His ocean takes the shape first of the pale arm he's dropped his face against, and flows into the form of the Venus de Milo. And this is when his eyes collide with ones the color of a still pond on a cloudy day. This look of Noras scares him more than her others. Her face is too still, too streaked with moonlight, too smooth, too… too alluring, too comforting. Her mouth is clean lines and full contours, her eyelashes cast soft shadows.

He thinks of striped t-shirts, stripes of sunlight through slats over the floor, over his body, over her body, images he very well may have only made up over time.

After all, they do say that every person you dream is just a collection of those you've really seen.

And this is when he blinks again, only to stop halfway because he realizes that all of her skin is bared and luminescent, the oceanic sheet draped over her hips, just lying beside him with her eyes somehow the brightest thing he's seen in a long time. And right about now, they don't remind him of anything but the ache that flares up deep down in his chest once in a while, but right now, Mello thinks he has some idea of how to make that all just go away.

She doesn't say anything when he reaches up a clammy hand and touches the curve of her shoulder, or when he smooths his palm down her arm. She doesn't say anything when his mouth falls open in what some might call awe, but what she'll call reminiscence, or when his fingers shake as they drag down her collarbone. She just tilts her head into the pillow and closes her eyes and embraces the heat of his hands, and his body, and his _fever._

The tips of his fingers drag down the curve of her waist, and he looks up at Nora like she's an entirely new person. Like he's only just met her, and she's the most serene, most beautiful thing he's ever felt. And when her eyes open, when they look at each other, it's like nothing else has ever happened before in the world, like they are the first who have ever seen this way. Like they've just eaten the forbidden fruits of knowledge, and they're about to find out what it's like to feel shame.

Mello moves into her. He presses his mouth tentatively to the hollow of her shoulder.

It's like nothing else.

She moves her arms upward and pulls him into the harbor of her chest. She lets him kiss her neck, and move his hands too gently over her legs, over her hips, over her stomach. She is a baby in his bed. She's never seen a thing in the world that would make her feel anything but love. She is a child in her mothers arms.

She moves in a lazy familiarity between the smoke and mirrors of his memories.

And Mello, he has no clue who he is, and that's okay to him, because the person he knew before, well, he just didn't like him too much.

He trails all over her in a slow, careful way. He hovers his mouth over hers and waits for her eyes to open.

But they don't, and that's all the same, because he would have sworn that they were the green-blue of still ponds right then. She just parts her lips and presses them into his. And if Mello ever believed in angels, he would have believed that they were singing to him is soft, hushed tones just then.

And she doesn't say a word. She just lets his blond hair fall over her, she lets his body settle between her legs, and she lets him kiss her. And she doesn't say anything until that final instant when he gently, slowly plunges into her.

But even then, all she can say is the first syllable of his name. And it's so quiet, she may as well have just said nothing.

It's like nothing else. Mello feels like he's just fallen into a soft pile of snow.

But in the morning, she's gone, and there's no sign that she was ever really there at all. With the sweat of a broken fever still clinging his hair to the back of his neck, Mello opens his eyes and knows before he looks up that he is alone again.

Down the road, early morning sun is hitting grave markers in a way that almost makes them look peaceful. Nora is sitting in front of the name Mail Jesus with her bare feet in the damp dirt. She is humming quietly while dragging her fingers into the earth, digging little holes and filling them back up idly.

The sun turns the short dashes of her hair to a glinting fire.

She remembers her mother.

Her father.

Her brother, and how he was left at the steps of a stone building by a quietly crying woman in a yellow dress. She remembers looking through the window in her fathers Oldsmobile and watching her mother bend down to kiss her son before touching his hair with her soft hands and turning to leave him.

In her mind, she sees Mello and what he must have meant to someone long ago and far away. She sees how easy it must have been to want to follow him anywhere, how captivating his madness must have seemed.

From a memory, she hears the conversations again, her father saying it'll be better without the boy, he'll be taken care of in the stone building, he'll have a chance. And with her toes in the dirt Nora sees in her brothers name the reflection of the fact that she will never forgive her father for a lot of things, but mostly for the fact that because her father only wanted his little girl, spitting image of her mother, she was left in the early sun in her mothers dress, a killer, a lover, alone.

And that now she was left to grasp at straws, straw-blond hair, things that might have been memories to the only person that ever mattered to her. A person that she had no hope of knowing now.

And the only connection to her enigma, the boy that lead him to die.

How bittersweet it must be for all who knew Mello.


End file.
